Abomination
by Domino Darkwolf
Summary: When Crowley brings a gang of monster-nabbing gods to Sam & Dean's attention, they aren't keen on investigating until they learn the gods possess something so powerful Crowley himself wants to keep it hidden. When it's discovered the "thing" is actually a mystery being called Abomination, Sam & Dean have to figure out how to free her from the gods, and keep her away from Crowley.
1. Chapter 1

_This is a story I stated a couple of years ago and all but abandoned when I hated how it was coming out. Because I still liked the concept and didn't want to let it die, I decided to revisit it in an experimental kind of way. Each chapter (or most chapters) will largely be from a random, non-main character's prospective (i.e. People Dean and Sam might talk to, random spectators and eavesdroppers, and so on). I hope you all enjoy the slightly unique and experimental breath that brought this story from the brink of death. If you like it, don't hesitate to leave a review. Reviews fuel my creativity (and they don't hurt the old ego none, either)._

* * *

Elsie awoke to an impossible darkness and a splitting headache. The overpowering smell of rubber and the throbbing in her skull left her so discombobulated she hardly noticed she was being carried like a sack of flour over some brute's shoulder. She tried to piece together her evening, half certain she had drunk herself into a stupor (that would explain the headache, wouldn't it?). She remembered walking out of work at the hospital. She recalled walking through the parking garage when a white van began to follow her at a menacing speed. The van had frightened her, but not enough to devour the confidence she had in her self-defense skills. Her nerves were on the downswing when the van looked like it was going to pass her, and then – WHAM! Something bludgeoned her in the side of the head and she watched stars explode across her field of vision before the world went dark.

Remembering this invoked a new sense of panic. Realizing she was being hauled potato-sack style intensified the dread in her bones. Instinct told her to lash out. To writhe and wiggle and scratch and bite (especially bite – _always_ bite) her way to freedom. But the man was immensely stronger than Elsie, which meant the man who carried her was not actually a man at all.

Elsie managed to get a grip on her situation long enough to make use of her heightened senses. She searched beyond the rubbery interference for the scent of fresh air drifting in from an open door. The sound of her captors to calculate how many of _them_ she was up against. The feel of hope. But all she could smell were monsters; the sulfuric stench of a demon, the decaying odor of a ghoul, the beastly scent of werewolf. All she could hear was their collective dismay; a young djinn was openly weeping, a witch was muttering in desperate tongues of ancient languages (Latin, mostly – witches loved Latin), and a rugaru was whimpering. All she could feel was Fear.

The Fear was everywhere. It pulsed through the whole stinking place. It touched every creature there, caressed them with its cold hands. And it radiated from the man-thing that was hauling Elsie down what sounded like a prison hall with brick flooring.

Elsie didn't know what was going on, but she surmised two things. One, the rubber bag shrouding her head had been crafted to overpower her senses long enough to prevent her from picking up any clues as to where she was and how to get out. Two, she was Fucked with a capital F.

The man-thing stopped, which was almost worse than being hauled down the hall. A loud whine of rusting metal pierced her ears as a heavy door yawned open. And then, quite unexpectedly, she was tossed like a ragdoll to a hard, cold floor.

Elsie and the stone floor were ill met. Her body slapped the surface, which returned the assault by dislocating her left shoulder. A sob lodged in her throat and was replaced with a sharp gasp. She ignored the eruption of pain (it would pass soon enough, anyway) and engaged in a skirmish with the rubber bag on her head, battling it with her right hand. The bag inevitably lost the fight (although it took a handful of long black hair as a souvenir), but it came loose only in time for Elsie to watch a dented door hammer shut, leaving a metallic echo and darkness in its wake.

Even in the dark, Elsie's deep brown eyes could see with crystal clarity her new surroundings. She took them in with eyes wide with terror as she slowly rose to her feet, cradling her shoulder as she stood. The darkness that surrounded her was accompanied by a cell of concrete, sturdy but old, with crumbles of rock and cracks and carvings. Scores of tallies scratched the gray walls in clusters, the ghosts of occupants past who had counted their days in the dreary (and that was putting it mildly) place. The tallies were paired with messages scrawled in thin cuts and oxidized blood. _Help. God forgive me. The Abomination never loses. Abandon all hope._

Each word was as chilling as the next, but the one she found particularly unnerving was painted thick in flaking blood (vampire blood, to be more precise) across the metal door that ensured her captivity.

 _ABOMINATION WILL BE YOUR END._

"Oh god," Elsie gasped. She didn't know what _Abomination_ was, but it made her undead heart skip about five beats before it sluggishly started, and then skipped seven more.

She sniffled. Choked on a sob and rubbed her shoulder, which was shifting itself back into place. Her eyes watered, and it took several furious blinks for her to keep them from falling. It took a few more rapid blinks before she noticed the window in the door. It was small, narrow and bared, but enough to give her a peek at the world she had been hurled into. She cautiously approached it like it was a sleeping dragon, and peered through it.

Outside, there were brick floors and more concrete and notched metal doors like her own. But that was ninety percent of what she could see. The other ten percent consisted of a set of big, lavender eyes that lit up among the mass of gray. The eyes came with an oval face and pillowy lips, and hair that was stark white with black stripes (or was it black hair with white stripes?). The unusual eyes, full of curiosity and empathy, studied Elsie from the cell across the way.

"Where are we?" Elsie asked her neighbor. A thought came to her and stole her breath. "Is this… hell?"

"No," the girl on the other side said. "What are you?"

Elsie hesitated. She could identify the other monsters by their smell. The woman across from her was unlike anything she had ever come across. It smelled new, but old. Light and dark. It looked innocent and mild, but felt threatening and powerful. It was confusing, contradicting, and, although Elsie didn't know what this young looking woman was, she knew it shouldn't be.

"Vampire," Elsie said with a tremble in her voice. "You?"

The girl with the lavender eyes blinked, but said nothing. Not to be impolite, Elsie suspected, but because of the look of shame that flickered across her eyes.

"What's going on?" Elsie asked when the girl remained silent. "Is he a hunter?"

"No," the stranger supplied helpfully but woefully. "That was Deimos. He's not the only one."

"The only one what?" Elsie asked, not bothering to withhold the distress from cracking her voice like a sledgehammer on asphalt. Elsie didn't know much about pagan gods. If the uniquely featured girl had said Zeus or Isis or Odin, Elsie would have put it together. The name of the Greek god of Fear meant nothing to her.

"God," the lavender-eyed thing said. "They're all gods."

"What do they want with us?" Elsie wanted to know. She curled her fingers around the bars and rattled the door, but she was no match for its strength. "Are they going to kill us?"

"No," was the response she was given. The lavender eyes filled with tribulation as they locked onto Elsie's. "I am."

* * *

 _ **Disclaimer: I am in no way affiliated with Supernatural, the CW or any of the talented people who labor to gift us the wonder that is Supernatural. This is a creative work of an obsessed fangirl who is not profiting from it (unless you count satisfaction as profit, in which case I am guilty of that, but nothing monetary is being made here.) Original characters are the brainchildren of "Domino Darkwolf", and she (I) take little to no responsibly for them; they were built with free will and they do as they please.**_


	2. Chapter 2

_It occurred to me that I forgot to mention where on the Supernatural timeline this story is set to. (Season ten. Post Deanmon.)_

* * *

 **Boulder, Colorado**

Lucy arrived at the hospital on time, not because the nurse's schedule dictated her life or even because it was part of the routine people often get sucked into. She went to work because she hoped beyond hope Elsie would turn up. It was unlikely; she had seen the video from the security camera, and if anything, the video should have told her to run like Hell was at her heels. But she stayed, because if Elsie _did_ come back, how could she find Lucy if Lucy disappeared to Timbuktu?

So the young-looking redhead worked as if nothing happened (or, rather, as if something was going to happen). Her shift in the ER began promptly at 6 o'clock in the morning. She arrived at 5:45 and started at 5:49. It was 11:32 when her life got sucker punched in the jugular.

She was carrying a metallic clipboard with her sights on the waiting room to usher a surly carpenter with a 5 inch, 40d galvanized nail pierced straight through his hand, when _they_ came. There were two of them, both in suits, both with FBI badges. They weren't really FBI, and Lucy knew it.

It wasn't the cheap suits that tipped her off; Lucy didn't know enough or care enough about fashion to know a cheap suit when she saw one. And it wasn't the fake badges; Lucy thought they looked passable. It wasn't even the fake names; Halford and Tipton seemed believable enough if you weren't a fan of Judas Priest (which Lucy wasn't).

What tipped Lucy off was their scent. Rather, _his_ scent. The one with dark hair, jade eyes and whisky breath. The tall one she had never seen or smelled, but she had caught a whiff of "Agent Halford" some towns and some years back when he was knocking out a nest she belonged to once upon a time. He had done a decent job all by himself. Now there were two of them.

 _Hunters._

The men folded their badge wallets once Lucy had given them a quick glance, and tucked them away in the inner pocket of their suit jackets.

"Do you mind if we ask you a few questions, Miss…?" the tall one with impressive hair asked. His eyes lowered to the laminated badge clipped to the pocket of her blue scrubs. "Ball."

"Wait," the first one said, staring down at the name printed in black beneath a photograph of the same freckled redhead that stood in front of them. "Your name is Lucy Ball?"

Lucy's expression drew a blank. To Sam and Dean (she didn't know their real names were Sam and Dean, but they were), she looked like the antithesis of amused. Annoyed, even. Not at all terrified, which is how she felt. Because "Ball" was her last name as much as Halford and Tipton were theirs.

In hindsight, Ball was probably not the most conspicuous name she could have given herself. She told anyone who asked that her parents were big " _I Love Lucy_ " fans (although the truth was that _she_ was a big " _I Love Lucy_ " when it originally debuted). Most people didn't ask. They either assumed her parents were being funny, or found it highly entertaining.

Dean was one of the highly entertained. He was wearing a grin that pronounced the creases at the corner of his eyes.

"Luuuucy!" he said, imitating Ricky Ricardo's scolding timbre. He smiled at his own joke and looked to Sam for approval. When Sam shot him a pointed look — a wordless and unenthusiastic "dude, no" — the smile was eaten away by a slow awkwardness Dean tried to deflect by nodding at a passing nurse in pink scrubs.

"One of the other nurses we spoke to said you were close to Elsie Perez," Sam said, choosing the straight path to business. "Would you mind answering a few questions for us?"

"Not at all," Lucy said with a faux smile that passed for real.

"Did you happen to notice anything strange about Elsie before she went missing?" Sam asked.

"No." Lucy's long ponytail whipped the sides of her neck as she shook her head. "Nothing out of the ordinary."

"Was Elsie hanging out with anyone new?" Dean questioned. "A boyfriend, or a new group of people? Maybe a particularly rowdy bunch?"

Lucy's heart leaped into her throat. Were they taunting her with vampire stereotypes? Trying to get a rise out of her to confirm the conclusion they had undoubtedly already drawn?

"No," Lucy said with a tremble. Dean picked up on this and began to eye her with skepticism. "Elsie was my best friend." She set aside her nervousness to allow the fire of hatred to blaze across her green eyes. "Whoever took her was not someone we knew."

"You seem pretty sure about that," Dean borderline accused. He absently put a hand in his pants pocket and tilted his head back ever so slightly. "You also seem pretty confident your friend is dead."

Lucy's eyes darted between the hunters. She shifted uncomfortably and clutched her clipboard to her chest.

"Chances of finding someone after the first 48 hours drops to almost nothing," she said, successfully attempting a smooth, logical voice. "She's been gone for a week."

Sam and Dean shared a quick glance Lucy couldn't quite read. To her it looked knowing; they knew what she was, and worse, they knew what happened to Elsie. Because, Lucy was certain, they were the ones who had taken her.

"Miss Ball, are you aware of the blood that's gone missing from this hospital?" Sam asked.

Lucy's jaw clenched before she gave up the act and took the bait.

"Why can't you just leave us alone?"

The words came out in a whisper and they came without thought. They were timid but angry. Wounded and bitter.

Sam and Dean exchanged a brief, quizzical glance before giving Lucy a baffled look. Lucy assumed they were either shocked she was calling them out, or annoyed she had figured them out in broad daylight before they could surprise her come night.

"Excuse me?" Dean asked, and Lucy thought he did an excellent job at playing a beautiful dummy.

"We're not hurting anybody," Lucy said in a low tone one notch above a whisper. "Can't you just leave us alone?"

Sam's brows knitted together. Also a good play, Lucy thought. _He could have been an actor_.

"I'm sorry," the tallest Winchester said. "I'm not sure we follow."

Lucy rolled her eyes.

"I know you're hunters," she said bluntly, taking Sam and Dean aback. She leaned forward and dropped her tone. "And I know what you did to Elsie."

"We didn't…" Sam started, then trailed off when it struck him. The crease in his brow thickened and he pointed vaguely at her. "Wait. Are you and Elsie vampires?"

Lucy's eyes widened with horror. They _hadn't_ been playing her, or taunting her. Whatever it was they thought, it wasn't that she and her life mate, Elsie, were a couple of fangs (or a fang couple, as it were).

Her silence served as her response, and the brisk step back spoke louder than any words could have.

"That explains the missing blood bags," Dean concluded, turning aside to look at Sam.

"You didn't… you didn't kill Elsie?" Lucy asked anxiously.

"No," Sam told her.

"Oh god." Lucy felt sick. "Please don't kill me."

"Relax, Twilight," Dean said, taking a casual look around to assure himself no one had heard Lucy beg them not to kill her. "As long as you're not dropping bodies, you're in the clear." He paused and gave her a grin that stabbed away cheer with grave sincerity. "But if you do start dropping bodies, don't think for one second we won't find you."

"Dean," Sam said scoldingly. He gave his older brother a disapproving shake of his head, who returned the gesture with an unapologetic "what?" expression. Sam turned his attention back to Lucy. "Were you two the only vamps in town?"

Lucy nodded in place of the words that stuck in her throat.

"Well, this has been pointless," Dean said with another insincere smile. Sam pursed his lips and lifted his brows in relative agreement.

"Thank you for your time," Sam said respectfully, more out of habit than anything. They turned to walk away, but something possessed Lucy to call out to them.

"Wait!" she said, eliciting their attention enough for them to stop. "Are you… can you help me find Elsie?"

Sam turned away. Dean scoffed.

"Sorry, sweetheart," he told her. "Finding lost vamps ain't in the job description. Just be glad we're leaving you alone."

Lucy stood in solid shock for a while after the Not-FBI-But-Odd-Shades-Of-Gray-Hunters disappeared out the sliding glass doors of the ER. Later, she would quit her job, and within the week, she disappeared into the eastbound fray with their scent in her mind and the loss of Elsie in her chest.

* * *

Saul Sinatra (no relation to any other Sinatra you may have heard of) hated hospitals. They gave him the heebie-jeebies. They looked clean and sterile, but oh baby, there were viruses lurking around every corner. That's what went through Saul's head every time he walked the halls of a hospital. So when his father (who had come down with an aggressive form of lung cancer) slipped into a deep sleep, Saul bounced down to the parking garage for a toke and a smoke (an irony that was not completely lost on him).

He was huddled between his '98 Jeep Cherokee and a brick wall, enjoying a joint of premium weed the seller called "Northern Lights" when he heard two sets of shoes clicking against concrete, echoes that were followed by a pair of voices.

"I told you it wasn't a case," a gravelly baritone said with a note of contempt.

"We've checked into less," another voice returned. "And it wasn't exactly nothing."

"Yeah," the first voice scoffed sarcastically. "A missing vampire. That's right up our alley, Sam."

 _Vampire?_

Saul quietly sat up and peeked through the tinted back window of his Jeep. He spied Sam and Dean ambling towards the Impala, parked six spaces from him. Saul, who had them pegged as Feds, hastily licked his fingers and pinched his joint out. He watched as Sam stopped and sniffed the air.

"You smell weed?" he casually asked.

Paranoia seized Saul's heart, sending adrenaline blasting through his veins.

"Yeah, Sam," Dean spoke as he fished a set of keys out of his pants pocket. "It's the scent of Colorado. The whole damn state smells like weed."

Sam made a face, thoughtful and agreeing, and lumbered on.

"You don't think it's weird someone kidnapped a vampire?" Sam asked and Dean shrugged.

"How do we know it's not just another hunter who sucks at the job?" Dean offered a simple conclusion. Sam teetered his head from side to side.

"Maybe," he half agreed. Thoughtful pause. "Garth said one of his church members went missing. Got picked up in a white van, like Elsie."

"So it's a hunter who _really_ sucks at the job," Dean dismissed. "Finding missing monsters ain't part of the gig, Sammy. And since when do you talk to Garth?"

"He called me," Sam admitted as the brothers paused at the trunk of the Impala.

Saul would have made a break for it, but the conversation he had unintentionally eavesdropped on was too bizarre for him to walk away now. He strained his ears to hear where the Winchester's (who he was still sure were Feds, despite the old muscle car they clamored around) story was going.

"And?" Dean said.

"And I told him I would look into it," Sam confessed, causing Dean to roll his eyes and his head.

"We are not looking into missing monsters," Dean said flatly, gesturing with a hand that underlined his words.

"I'm not saying we should," Sam agreed. "But don't you think it's kind of weird? I mean, who nabs a vamp and a werewolf?"

"Who indeed?"

The husky, English accented voice startled Saul, who ducked like someone was shooting at him. He pressed his back against the Jeep and strained to hear anything above the hammer of his heart. He half expected his cover to be blown before he tried to reason with himself that he had every right to be in that parking garage with a half-smoked joint smashed into his fist (which is a difficult thing to accomplish when you've just smoked half a joint.)

"Oh, good. It's Crowley," Saul heard Dean say between the rapid thumps of paranoia that played his heart like a two year old plays an overturned pot with a spoon.

"Hello, boys," the new voice greeted.

The paranoia gradually faded away when Saul convinced himself he was in the clear (a feat made more achievable by knowing he had not been spotted). It was replaced with a fleeting stench of sulfur. Saul wrinkled his nose and carefully rose to peer through the window again. Despite the new voice, he was still surprised to find the "agents" had been joined by what looked like a wealthy stockbroker (but who was actually the king of the damned).

"What do you want?" Sam snapped, nothing short of annoyed.

"Why would you assume that I want anything?" Crowley questioned innocently. "I just happened to be in the neighborhood and noticed you were looking into missing monsters. I thought I could shed a little light on the situation."

"We're not looking into missing monsters," Dean said defensively, casually gesturing towards Crowley with his hand to bolden his statement. His hand dropped along with his expression, which faded to mild embarrassment. "But if you know something about it," he continued with a nonchalant air that was as real as leopard print on a Cougar's blouse. "I wouldn't _not_ listen."

A smirk teased the corner of Crowley's mouth as he shoved his hands into his black pea coat.

"They call themselves _Sanguinibus Deorum_ ," the king divulged. "Latin for—"

"Blood gods," Sam interrupted. Dean's brows furrowed and his nose wrinkled as he shot Sam a bemused look.

"How do you know so much Latin?" he asked. Sam half frowned and half arched a brow at his brother.

"How do you _not_ know more Latin by now?" he retorted.

Crowley cleared his throat impatiently, roping the Winchester's attention back in. Saul's attention didn't need to be harnessed. He watched all of this like a TV drama he had just discovered on Netflix. Vampires. Werewolves. _Gods_?

 _What the hell is going on?_

"They are, for lack of a better term, a _gang_ of pagan deities," Crowley explained. "Particularly nasty deities, to be precise. They practically run New Orleans"

"Okay," Dean said, appearing largely unimpressed. "What does a gang of dickbag gods want with monsters?" He paused to allow a snarky grin form. "Are they looking for Purgatory?"

Crowley rolled his eyes. Saul leaned closer, so close his forehead pressed against the cool glass of the window.

"Cock fights," Crowley said, ignoring the Purgatory jab. "Sans the cocks."

"So, monster fights," Sam clarified, in case the obvious hadn't been clear to anyone (which it had been, even to Saul who only just discovered the supernatural was real.)

Dean pondered this and shrugged.

"Huh," he said, amused but disinterested. "That's new." He paused to look at Sam. "You ready?"

"Yeah," Sam said, eager to leave the presence of the king of Hell and the conversation he had brought with him.

The Winchesters turned their backs on Crowley. Crowley pursed his lips, rolled his eyes in annoyance, and took a single step forward.

"Aren't you two morons going to do anything about it?" he demanded to know. Sam and Dean grudgingly paused and turned back around.

"Yeah," Dean said. "We're gonna send 'em a fruit basket for taking out some fangs for us."

"They took one of my demons," Crowley protested.

If Saul hadn't already been hooked, he was now. The idea of angels and demons and Revelations were concepts he had always gravitated towards (although the pre-stages of the almost Armageddon he hadn't even noticed.) The one they called Crowley looked human, but Saul had read enough lore and unsolved mysteries to grasp the concept of possession, and he drew his own conclusions about the king (conclusions that happened to be correct.) Conclusions that made him shiver.

"You expect us to believe you give a crap about one kidnapped demon?" Sam questioned with a skeptical air and a cocked brow. "We've killed more demons than we can count." He paused to critically scrutinize the king. "What do they really have?"

Crowley grumbled inaudibly, displeased he was being forced to reveal his true motives.

"They have something of mine," he begrudgingly admitted. "And it would be in everyone's best interest if they didn't have it."

"Something of yours or something you want?" Sam questioned accusingly. Crowley rolled his eyes.

"The point isn't whether or not it belongs to me," he said vaguely, prompting an eye roll from each Winchester and a soundless and sarcastic "ha!" to form on Saul's lips. "The point is that these bloody pagans have something incredibly powerful and it would be terribly unfortunate if they were to discover what it is capable of."

The Winchesters hesitated. Saul watched them shift awkwardly as they considered what they had been told. To Saul, this was better than the movies. He only wished he had a bucket of popcorn and a liter of cola (or any beverage, really. His mouth was dry and felt distinctly like he had stuffed a handful of cotton balls inside.)

"Let me guess," Dean said with a smile that lacked amusement. "You can't get in to take it yourself, so you want us to Mission: Impossible the clubhouse and nab it for you?"

"Well, if you're offering," Crowley said, casually inspecting his immaculate cuticles. Sam sneered and exhaled a heavy breath through his nose.

"Even if we do go down to New Orleans and steal a powerful object from a gang of angry gods, what makes you think we're going to hand it over to you?"

"Because I'm the only one who knows how to keep it safe," Crowley replied, his tone calm but teetering on an anxiety Saul could pick up from his spot several yards away. The Winchesters, however, did not appear to hear this clue.

"Safer than the bunker?" Dean challenged.

"Miles safer than that bloody hole you call a bunker," Crowley spat. "I've been there so many times I would be surprised if there was any warding left." He paused to gauge the expressions on their faces, neither of which favored him or his ideas. "The only safe place to hide this… _thing_ , is in Hell."

Sam made an "uh-huh" noise in his throat and lifted his brows at Dean. His expression changed from unamused to surprised when he noticed his brother's state of contemplation.

"Say we do go Raiders on this god cave," Dean said. "What's in it for us?"

"Besides avoiding another tedious effort to stop the world from collapsing at the hands of supernatural entities?" Crowley said icily. His jaw tightened and his eyes narrowed. "I'll owe you one."

"You'll owe us one?" Dean echoed, his brows raising in amusement.

"I bloody well gave you my offer," Crowley grumbled with a note of embarrassment. "You don't have to make me repeat myself."

Sam and Dean exchanged a soulful glance. A wordless communication system that required no body language. Like telepathy, minus the actual mind reading.

"Do it," Saul whispered, momentarily forgetting he was not watching television. "Go Raiders!"

"We'll check it out," Dean said once their gestureless communication had been completed.

"Excellent," Crowley declared, reaching into the inner pocket of his coat.

"But that's gonna cost you one," Dean negotiated, causing Crowley to pause and his expression to deadpan. "Actually busting in and taking this thing, that's gonna cost you another favor."

Crowley paused. He ran his tongue over his bottom teeth and narrowed his eyes again.

"Fine," he agreed with a cold breath. He withdrew a small scroll of yellowed paper and handed it to Sam without looking at him. Sam took it with a look of confusion.

"What's this?" he asked before he tugged the wine-red ribbon fashioned around the paper.

"An address where you can find the heathen pagans," Crowley replied, suddenly as relaxed as he had been upon arriving. "And a list of its members." He paused, stuffed his hands back into his coat pockets and gave the hunters a satisfied, yet slightly skeptical, look. "Pleasure doing business with you," he said sardonically, turning to take his leave. "Stay in touch."

"Wait!" Dean called. Crowley stopped and turned slightly. "Exactly what is it we're looking for, anyway?"

Crowley smirked.

"Lavender," he said vaguely. Dean squinted like the answer to his unasked question existed in the distance.

"Like, the flower?" Dean said, and Crowley rolled his eyes.

"It's a good thing you're pretty," he muttered. "What you're looking for is the color lavender. Believe me. You'll know it when you see it."

And he was gone. Saul had to blink, rub his eyes, and blink again to make sure he had seen what he had seen, which was a man turning into nothingness. Or evaporating. Or vanishing. Saul shook his head and looked down at the join he was still holding.

"We really gonna do this?" Sam questioned, his expression, in Saul's opinion, far too blasé considered the not-quite-a-man had just vanished before his eyes.

Sam turned to Dean, who shrugged.

"A gang of gods with a weapon powerful enough to start Apocalypse two point oh?" Dean said. "I think that's worth checking into."

"Yeah," Sam said resentfully. A slow smile crept across his face. "I told you there was a case here."

"Shadup," Dean grumbled.

Saul watched the hunters (who he was now fully convinced were real-life X-File feds) climb into the black Impala and drive away.

"Fuck," Saul muttered to himself, breathing a deep sigh of relief. He stood upright, stuck the joint back between his lips and shook his head. "Was that even real?" his muffled words questioned as he lit his joint.

"Very real."

Saul managed to hold on to a scream as Crowley appeared beside him. His eyes, however, widened and he jumped back, falling against his Jeep. Crowley (who smelled like expensive cologne and scotch under the initial wave of sulfur, Saul noticed) watched him with delight, relishing in the reaction he _should_ invoke in mankind.

"You got quite an earful, didn't you?" Crowley more stated than asked. Saul nodded, staring at the demon with wonder and fear.

"I-I d-didn't mean to," Saul stammered. "I was just minding my own business when those two FBI guys came wandering through, and then you popped up—"

He stopped liked a truck hitting a brick wall at Crowley's disenchanted gesture that consisted simply of him raising his hand.

"I'm sure it was all a frightful mistake," Crowley agreed. "One could hardly blame you for cowering like a filthy mutt. Stoned out of your mind, mere yards from what you thought were federal agents. If I were human, I might have frozen, too."

"I won't say anything, man," Saul frantically swore. "No one'll believe me. Not that I'd tell them," he rapidly added. "It's just… I… I'll take this to the grave."

Crowley smirked.

"I know you will," he said. "We can't have just anyone knowing about all this, can we?"

Saul shook his head. Crowley gave him a wicked grin.

"There's a good dog."

Saul breathed a deep sigh of relief. And then, with a flick of Crowley's wrist, his neck snapped. His body slid clumsily across the side of the Jeep and hit the concrete with a muted thud. Crowley looked down with nothing short of apathy. Apathy gave way to mild interest when he spotted the joint smoldering on the ground next to fresh corpse. He bent down, picked it up, and experimentally took in a long drag. He nodded in approval and blew a thick cloud of skunky smoke down at Saul.

"Not bad."


	3. Chapter 3

_Well, it's chapter three and I'm mildly embarrassed I don't have any reviews yet, but it looks like I have followers so, hopefully someone is reading this. Don't hesitate to leave a brief review or an intricate thumbs up craftily devised of symbols and spaces and numbers. (A simple comment will suffice in lieu of a symbol picture.)_

* * *

They called it the Colosseum.

In reality, it was more of a glorified cockpit, but gods were suckers for the classics, even if none of them were exactly Roman.

The Colosseum was a smallish, basement level arena. The benches that wrapped around the room in a nearly completed square were built of solid limestone, the brick walls painted an off-white. The not-quite-white magnified the yellow light, keeping the place nice and bright, but at the same time exposing the dirt and grime that gathered in corners and cracks. And in the center of it all, in the pit of the almost-amphitheater, was a bloodstained mat enclosed in a wrought iron cage.

Most nights (except Tuesdays and Wednesdays — even deities need a weekend) the arena was packed with shouting men dressed in expensive business suits waving wads of high-numbered bills. The place would fill with the woody smokes of high end cigars that floated above the underlying scent of top shelf liquors and a mishmash of pricey colognes. Excitement buzzed around the crowds like a fiery aura that all but exploded when blood began to fly.

The night Casey Nash brought his own monster, excitement nearly frothed at the mouths of men.

For the most part, members and spectators didn't bring their own monsters. Monsters were purchased at a negotiable price from the gods and kept in their cages — a boarding house of malignancy. Sometimes the gods would pit two of their own against each other, just to keep the show and the money rolling. So when Casey Nash brought in a dragon, the crowds lost their shit.

Nash — a stout man who was venturing into his sixties with balding gray hair and watery green eyes — stood beside the cage with a confidence that straightened his spine, puffed out his chest and spread a grin across his red face. Not even the gods had a dragon, and they were damn near impossible to kill. Especially in a weaponless melee against a lesser beast. Not even the god's reigning champ could hold a candle to a mother loving dragon.

"You want me to play this up or take 'er out real quick like?"

Nash looked up into the face that peered down at him between the iron bars. It was a warrior's face; a hooked nose set on a square jaw with thin lips in between, eyes that burned like embers and hair the color of charcoal. He wiggled his thick brows in eager anticipation. He wasn't scared. He had little reason to be scared. He was, after all, a fucking dragon.

"If it's all the same t' you, boss," the dragon said with a thick accent most people would place somewhere between Dick van Dyke's chimney sweep character and Vinnie Jones. "I'd like to drag it out s'long as I can." He cracked his knuckles and his neck. "Ain't every day I get a chance to really get my hands dirty. I'd rather like to enjoy this."

Nash smiled.

"These people paid for a show," he said, motioning to the crowd that had gathered to watch what promised to be an epic battle. "And we're gonna give 'em a show." He paused and his eyes shifted right to the opposite side of the ring where a young woman stood with her back turned. "Take the bitch out before she knows what hit her."

His gaze shifted left and up to a handsome featured, black haired man in a crisp white suit. The Greek. Brandishing a sincere smile, the Greek lifted a rocks glass in salute to Nash and his impressive challenger. Nash tossed him a false, toothy grin.

"Let's show these bastards there's a new champ in town," he spoke through his teeth as he waved at the Greek. He looked back up at the dragon. "If it's all the same to you, Beat."

Beat shrugged and cracked the knuckles on his other hand.

"You're t' boss, boss," he said.

And Nash was just that. Beat was less of a pet and more of an employee. A bouncer, really, and a hired muscle when one of Nash's less legal business ventures became complicated. When Nash discovered what Beat was, it didn't take much to convince the dragon to challenge the Abomination. He would be rewarded in gold and in glory, and Beat was too much of a dragon to deny himself of the chance at either.

"All bets are final!" a voice charged above the others seconds before a sharp "ding!" of a bell sang out and the crowd went wild.

Abomination turned to face her opponent. She was a sad vision; pretty, but dirty with the woeful look of a shelter dog. Her black and white hair was tied up in a messy bun with wisps of black and white sticking out in several directions. Her gray sweatpants were smeared with a rust hue and streaked with brown, an abstract of blood and dirt on cotton. Her black tank top was ratty and stained with sweat and dried flecks of blood. She looked like she had rolled out of bed and down a wooded hillside.

In short, she looked mild and tired and the antithesis of a warrior. She looked like she would go down at the second blow, if the first one didn't take her. She looked like she wouldn't even fight back.

Nash knew her looks were deceptive. Beat didn't. They were both savoring the sweet taste of premature victory.

Beat turned to face Abomination. He hopped to the center of the caged ring like a boxer with his fists up, protective but combative. Abomination shuffled towards him like a bored teenager being forced to complete an arbitrary chore. They met in the middle where he started moving in tight circles around her. She stayed still as a statue, her gaze locked on the Greek. When Beat finally caught her attention, he grinned and drove a fist into her abdomen. She arched back with the fist, but the look on her face indicated the blow had phased her about as much as a gentle breeze would have. He knitted his eyebrows together and threw a second jab, an uppercut to the jaw. She tilted her head with the strike, and she nearly yawned in the process. Beat growled, put a booted foot up and kicked her square in the gut. She wheeled back a few paces but didn't go down.

Beat was frustrated, and teetering on the edge of fury. A fire ignited behind his eyes — a real, honest to goodness fire — and his skin began to glow a hot, orangish red. Abomination took note of the fire and the lava-hued flesh and, for a moment, seemed fascinated.

"You're a dragon?" she not so much as questioned as she did state. "My mother told me your kind had gone extinct." Her intrigue fell to grave sorrow. "That will make killing you all the harder."

"You damn right it will," Beat said. He began pacing in menacing circles around her. "I'm a tough motha fucka to put down. And I don't see no sword in you hand."

Abomination looked down at her right hand and whispered; "That's not what I meant."

Nash looked up at the Greek and the woman at his side, a lovely Egyptian with red lips that matched her elegant evening gown. They sat comfortably on their perch high above the shouting crowds, amused but worry free.

 _We'll see how worried you look after Beat annihilates your precious Abomination. Then we'll see who the big shot is._

He drew his attention back to the ring in time to watch Beat clutch her face with his fiery hands. Abomination's eyes widened and her jaw dropped as steam rolled from her flesh. Nash pumped a victory fist in the air before she could start screaming.

Only, Abomination never screamed.

With Beat's hands on her face, he had left himself exposed to a counter strike. Abomination took it, slashing his throat open with her finger nails. The slit ran deep, spraying her hand with blood as she tore into his flesh. Beat's eyes widened in surprise and he let go of Abomination to stagger backwards, clutching his throat on the way.

Abomination looked at the blood with an uneasy fascination. She seemed oblivious to the blackened handprints scorched along her face, and was anything but surprised when the burns gradually faded and flecks of black fell around her shoulders like snow.

"You bitch," Beat growled, his voice choked and hoarse as his wounds sealed. He removed his hand from his throat, looked down at the thick smear of blood in his palm, checked his neck with his fingers, looked again for more blood and narrowed his eyes when he was satisfied he had healed. He exhaled sharply through his nose and advanced on Abomination. He put his right hand — his blood stained hand — over her face and his skin began to glow hot from head to toe. Smoke rose from the space between his hand and her face as he pushed her backwards until she was pinned between the dragon and the cage. She made a grab at his arm with her right hand — the bloodstained hand — and held it on the fiery flesh, attempting, more or less, to pry his grip from her face while ignoring the burns she was sustaining in the process.

Nash retrieved a cigar from the interior pocket of his suit jacket, stuck it between his lips and lit it with a silver zippo. His victory cigar. He had meant to light it upon Beat's triumph, but he couldn't wait. It was a sign meant for the Greek. A brash gloat. Pompous pride. He glanced up at the Greek and his Egyptian companion. Neither of them looked remotely nervous. Their blasé demeanor took the wind out of Nash's sail, and, even with Beat burning the hell out of Abomination, with his brute strength pinning her against the cage, Nash suddenly felt less confident.

Beat bore a grimace as he pushed Abomination's head against the cage with his hand, attempting to either burn her brains out or cave her head in, whichever came first. But there was something resisting either from happening. It wasn't she herself doing the resisting; she wasn't screaming into his palm, and she was barely trying to pull him away from her. In fact, her conscious resistance seemed lazy. The resistance that prevented her head from popping like a grape, that was something ingrained in the fiber of her very being. She couldn't be crushed.

This epiphany dawned on Beat around the same time Abomination put her foot against his abdomen and gave him a kick that sent him sailing back to the opposite end of the ring. Beat bounced against the iron bars and crumpled to the mat with a confused moan. Abomination descended upon him, swift and urgent, yet calm and sorrowful. A black handprint reached across her face, covering her mouth and her nose, fingers spreading across her eyes and her forehead with a long thumb mark reaching across her left cheek. When it began to flake away, it left in its wake a mild welt the color of rust in the shape of Beat's hand.

Abomination gathered Beat's shirt in her left fist and hauled him up, effortlessly hoisting him a few inches from the floor. She drew her right arm back, holding her hand not in a fist, but flat and vertical. Beat noted the welts on her hand were the same as her face, and appeared only where his blood had touched her. And he realized what he had done.

"I'm really sorry about this," Abomination delivered a heartfelt apology.

"What are you?" Beat asked with a terror that only comes to those who have witnessed Fear itself. Abomination gave him a sad smile, and plunged her hand into his chest.

The crowd lost its collective mind. Men groaned and palmed their foreheads. Others cheered, pumped their fists in the air and high fived each other. Nash's jaw dropped and his cigar tumbled to the floor.

Abomination ripped her arm out of Beat's chest, taking with it his heart. She dropped him and he fell with a dull smack. His head bounced off the mat, his glossy eyes staring straight at Nash. With a deadpan expression, Abomination held his heart up for all to see, and fixed her gaze on the Egyptian. The Egyptian gave her an elegant nod and watched Abomination toss the dragon's heart into a steel bucket in the corner of the ring.

"H-how?" a stunned Nash managed to stammer up at the reigning champion. "How did you…?"

Abomination turned to look at him.

"You need a weapon forged with dragon blood to take one out," Nash said in an accusing sort of tone.

Abomination strolled over to Nash and crouched down with her face filled with dejection.

"I am a weapon," she told him in a doleful whisper. A sudden spark lit up her eyes like a match to gasoline. Her dismal mien was devoured by something nefarious and heinous. Her lips turned up in a wicked, Cheshire grin as she brought her hand up to examine the blood that coated half of her forearm. She gave Nash a mischievous look, then flicked her fingers at him, splaying blood across his face.

Nash blinked, stunned, as Abomination stood upright. He turned his gaze up to the Greek, and was not surprised to see the Greek was looking back. The Greek raised his glass again, this time as an insincere apology and a smug "nice try".

A cherry hue gathered in Nash's face. He averted his gaze, looking instead at the cigar smoldering at his feet. He withdrew a white handkerchief from his suit pocket and wiped his face, vexingly eyeing the smears of blood when he brought it down. He cursed the day (without success, as Casey Nash knew nothing about witchcraft and curses) the gods had set foot in his city and silently vowed (a promise he would not be able to keep) never to return.


End file.
